We were underway en route Palmyra Island, a small speck of an island about 900 miles south of Honolulu. Our task was to look for Japanese fishing vessels encroaching on our EEZ (Exclusive Economic Zone), trying to sneak into a place where our cutters couldn’t reach. District Headquarters thought they’d trick the fisherman by sending patrol boat where no one had gone before—that was not necessarily true, but it sounds pretty good, and it’s a veiled Star Trek reference. Our secondary mission was to contact the island’s keeper.
Palmyra is a privately owned island, and the owners did not want to get sued by wayward sailors looking for shelter and only finding a sprained ankle among the thick, tropical underbrush.
ASSATEAGUE had departed Hono about 10 days before and made a brief stop for fuel at Johnson Atoll.
Johnson Atoll, a little peach of an island, destroys chemical weapons for the US Army. We arrived at JA shortly after a hurricane had introduced herself to the inhabitants and wrecked everything. When the Captain and I had our inbrief, we had to be escorted to the base commander by two soldiers with gas masks hanging off their belts. I thought this is no big deal; they destroy chemicals; it’s probably just some stupid regulation that requires them to keep the masks on their person.
“Sir”, the smaller sergeant began, “I’m sorry to say that your crew will have to stay aboard ASSATEAGUE while you’re here.”
“OK” said my Captain.
“The hurricane did a lot of damage to the containment units; we aren’t sure how well they’ll hold. If you hear any kind of siren, I’d leave the dock as fast as you can, you just never know…”
He left that last bit just hanging there…you never know…like we were supposed to know what that meant.
We met the CO in his office. It was a typical military office, sparse, khaki-colored, with a few personal items, pictures, plaques, and such, but nothing memorable. We spoke with the Colonel for a few minutes, did the obligatory invitation to eat in our “wardroom.” He politely and appropriately declined the invitation. Fortunately, we did not have to turn down his invitation to dine at their galley; there weren’t enough gas masks to go around…oh well.
The night at Johnston Atoll unfolded, thankfully without the need for gas masks, the same way any number of port calls, we had a barbeque on the pier and drank beer we bought from the commissary. I think the Army took pity on us and escorted a couple of our guys to get the libations for the night.
We left Desolation Central for parts unknown, actually, we knew the parts, but how often do you really get to write “parts unknown!” Our trip to Palmyra crawled along at a leisurely pace. We had to conserve fuel, no Exxon station anywhere out in the deep blue Pacific.
The four-hour watches faded into anonymity quite quickly. One night, however, I spied the Captain with a sextant taking a…taking a….I still can’t believe it…taking a celestial fix! That archaic art of “cel nav”. Well, not to be outdone, I let the Captain know I took cel nav at CGA but really sucked at it. He laughed the laugh of someone who knows his craft. He told me I could try if I liked. So, I did. After a couple of weeks, we were shooting for beers. Closest to the GPS fix was the winner. The beers would have to wait until Hono, which is a good thing; he beat me every time but one. I still have that UPS to prove I nailed that fix.
The few days from the Chemicalville to the paradise we were heading to were unequaled in my career for absolute FACness. The mirror I used to shave in the morning had more ripples. To this day, I have still never seen anything like this. At night, the horizon and the ocean were indistinguishable. The water was so smooth I almost felt terrible gliding through the ocean and waking it up at night.
Palmyra is almost due south of Honolulu. During World War II, I think the Navy used it as a seaplane base to protect Hawaii’s underbelly. To the best of our knowledge, the SEABEES blasted a narrow, I mean NARROW like Olive Oyl narrow, channel through the coral. We had no idea if that channel was still maintained. The the island’s owners provided us with the name of the caretaker, Roger (although I was to find out that he was French), and told us we could contact him on marine band CH-16. Seemed OK to me…
The morning of our approach was like all the rest, glass calm seas, early sunrise, bacon, and eggs. We began a BARPAT about 1500 yards off the reef line and tried to call. The Captain had me on the bridge make first contact.
“Palmyra Island, Palmyra Island, this is US Coast Guard on channel one six, over.” Radiospeak is dry and stilted devoid of any attempt to sound human.
No answer.
I try again.
“Coast Guard, Coast Guard, this is Roger!!” Now, I am nowhere near skilled enough to try and capture Roger’s accent. Just think Pepe LePew from Bugs Bunny, and you are in the ballpark. He pronounced Roger more like “Roe-zhere”
“Palmyra, this is Coast Guard, we would like to proceed to lagoon and anchor.” “Coast Guard, Coast Guard, this is Roger! I have built a range, you come in on the , and you will be safe! Look for the tree with the white paint, that is the rear range.”
I looked at the Captain to try and gauge what kind of response I should give. It was great that Roger made this range, but I don’t think we were going to depend on that over GPS. The captain chuckled a bit and shook his head.
“Palmyra, understand, range. Appreciate the help. Coast Guard Out.”
“Coast Guard, Coast Guard, this is Roger! Do you have any dog food?”
I have heard many types of requests over the radio, but this was a first. The bridge crew looked at me and knew I had no idea what to say. We did not have a dog, nor did we have any dog food. I had all I could do to keep a straight face. I looked to the captain again in a feeble hope that he would end this misery with the Frenchman. But he just shook his head, laughed a bit, and nodded toward the radio, letting me know that our buddy Roger was still waiting for a reply.
Again, radiospeak is inhuman, devoid of inflection and emotion. In my best use of that language, I replied—
“Palmyra, negative on the dog food. Out.”
“Out” in radiospeak means we are done; I’m getting off the radio to do my work. To Roger, it meant keep talking.
“Coast Guard, Coast Guard, when you come over here, we will have a party!”
“Palmyra, Roger, we are making our approach at this time, Coast Guard out.”
“Coast Guard, Coast Guard…”
At this point, the Captain was laughing out loud at my apparent disdain for Roger. He really couldn’t keep it in. Because of that outburst, I missed Roger’s transmission. I could either ask him to “Say again” or…
“Palmyra, Roger, Out.”
That must have been it, Roger was no more.
The transit into Palmyra was about as nerve-wracking as talking to Roger. The SEABEES had done an admirable job of blasting a channel through the coral. We could tell, I just looked out the port window, and we could see the coral about 2 feet off our sides. Not a comforting thought, that close to rock that would rip our 3/8” thick steel hurt apart. We finally ended up in the lagoon, anchored about 250 yards from the beach. Anchored with us were two sailboats. Both boats were on the downside of a good scrubbing, but they looked seaworthy.
Standard procedure for a cutter is to complete a boarding of these vessels; they were, after all, in US territorial waters. I got suited up for a boarding. I grabbed my weapons belt and body armor and headed toward the fantail. I met the Gunner’s Mate and, we waited for the small boat to be lowered to the water’s edge. We donned our lifejackets and sped off to the nearest boat.
“Hello there, anyone aboard?”
No reply from below.
“Hey, onboard the sailboat.”
Again, no reply.
Well, I figured they couldn’t have gone far. I told the coxswain to head toward the other boat, we’d come back later. The other boat was as deserted.
This was a bit unusual. We were just “milling about smartly”—a military term if there ever was one—when a gentleman at a makeshift pier waved us over. I shook my head. It had to be Roger.
Roger was a deeply tanned man who could be about 40...or 25--it was hard to tell. He was slight but had that wiry look of a terrier. He had a leather band around his head, a loincloth (that thankfully covered quite a bit), and another leather strap around his right calf. That strap held a flower and a small knife. He was, pretty much, nothing like I expected.
Roger’s enthusiasm from the radio continued in person. He told us that we needed a tour of the island before we did anything else. While that seemed like a splendid idea, I was a bit interested in two sailboats sans crews—I guess it’s just a Coast Guard thing. Roger informed me that all was well; the crews were ashore—both men. They were each sailing around the world, alone.
I resigned myself to a tour of Palmyra. Roger began with his home. A roof with a back wall and three open sides was all Roger had. He had a stone oven in his front yard, so he could cook bread …whenever he had flour. I asked him about his supplies; patrol boats may be fast and glamorous, but they are not spacious. We had enough food aboard for not much more than ourselves. Roger told me a supply ship stopped by every four months or so. It had been five months since he had a resupply. This seemed like an issue that should cause some concern for most people. I asked Roger how he got his food. He motioned to follow him to the pier. We passed chickens along the way; I mean a lot of chickens. I don’t know how I missed them the first time around. These were real free-range chickens too. Roger said he would get eggs from them and occasionally kill a chicken for variety. Variety from what was my question.
The lagoon teems with fish life. Roger dives once or twice a day to stock up on fish.
Great plan, except for the sharks I read about in “The Sea Will Tell.”
“What about the sharks?”
“They do not bother me!” Roger said this with a bit of defiance that I felt might have been a bit much for Mother Nature to take.
“And why don’t they bother you,” I asked.
Roger took this as an insult, which it was, and preceded to lecture like I was back at the Academy.
“The fish, there are so many fish, the sharks don’t need to eat Roger! I stay close to the pier, and my friends stay deeper in the lagoon.”
Well, it must be working because Roger didn’t have any fresh shark bites.
We continued our tour around the island. We saw the old bathtub Roger set up to catch rainwater, he took us to the old airfield and saw an airplane hulk. It was quite a pretty place. Lush jungle, isolated lagoon, we were only missing Gilligan (actually, I was the first mate, which unfortunately makes me Gilligan). We walked a bit with our erstwhile host and slowly sauntered back to his little bit o’ heaven he called home…I called it a shack. At this point, we met our two world-weary sailors…they indeed were sailing around the world…alone. We took our leave of Roger, who promised us to come back for a cookout later…I obliged but thought to myself this was the last I would ever see of Palmyra. The gunner’s mate and I confirmed the two sailboats’ nondescript outer appearance…nothing to report…although each of the wayward sailors seemed genuinely glad to have someone to talk to beside Roger.
I finally made it back to the mighty ASSATEAGUE to report my “findings” to the Captain. As XO, I figured we would stay the night, break out the grill, then play some cards and watch some movies on the mess deck…we would have too if I didn’t convey Roger’s offer to my CO.
“Of course we’ll head ashore…get the cook to break out the beer and ice.”
“Aye, sir,” I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly…Roger was just shy of being a nutcase, and we were going ashore…to barbeque! Well, I knew as XO I should stay aboard which, is what I did.
About 1600, the radio crackled, it was the CO; he told me I should get my ass over to the pier immediately. I told him that it was ok, I didn’t mind staying aboard watching over the cutter. My CO informed me that he wasn’t asking but telling me it was a good idea for me to head over to the island. A heavy sign and significant eye roll, later I was on ASSATEAGUE 1 heading BACK to Palmyra.
Much to my relief, it seemed that the situation on the beach was tame. Several crewmembers swam leisurely in the lagoon…sharks be damned, a few were gathered by the BBQ pit drinking cans of beer, the cook, the remainder of the crew, and Roger slowly grilled our dinner. Ribs, chicken wings, and burgers. Roger couldn’t have been happier…not only was he eating red meat instead of fish, he was drinking COLD beer…ice is quite the commodity on a small Pacific Island.
Other than Roger feeding his pet eel beneath the pier, this seemed like a situation that I could handle. I thought that we would be here for another hour or so, then head back to ASSATEAGE. On many levels I was an idiot for thinking that. Roger casually mentioned that he would be honored to take us on a tour of his island. To my dismay but not disbelief, the crew heartily accepted the invitation, and the lot of us were off, to where no one knew. We traipsed through the jungle, following this waif of a man that none us knew, until we reached an old World War II concrete bunker. Roger escorted us in; then it just got weird.
By now, the sun had set, and it’s black, not dark. Dark would imply you might be able to see something. Roger had constructed a steel drum, and I have to admit, he did a good job. Roger started playing a song for us. Like I said, weird. His rhythmic beating slowly turned into singing; a song about two young people separated on two islands, longing for a…well you get the idea. I was convinced at this point that Roger was going to kill us or some accomplice on the island was hiding in the black, laughing at us, and waiting to kill us or worse. Neither happened. Roger finished his song and quickly announced that we had to head back to the beach. Relieved, I agreed and rounded up the crew and followed Roger.
Yet again, I figured the night had wound down, and we would be heading back to the creature comforts of ASSATEAGUE. I’m not sure how I could have been so wrong…again. Upon arrival at the beach, the fire had dwindled, the food was gone, and the beer was about run out too. This, however, lead our two around-the-world sailors to head back to their respective sailboats to bring back Pilipino rum. I was crestfallen. The crew started drinking the rum out of Mason jars. My idyllic run on Palmyra ended. I snapped. I took a bottle of rum, stood on the table ,and drank it straight down. I remember nothing until 0600 the next day. Overall, it had been a bad day.
Fast forward to the next morning…we get underway from the lagoon, head out to sea to resume our patrol. As we are making preparations to leave, I see some movement on Roger’s boat. It was not a good idea, but I took the radio down of the cradle and called Roger,
“Cous Cous the is cutter ASSATEAGUE”
“Coast Guard, Coast Guard, how are you this morning?” Roger asked this with too much enthusiasm for my taste…and my headache.
“Fine, fine, are you making preps to leave the island?”
“Yes, yes, my friend (and I for the life of me forget his name) is going to take care of my island… I am going back to Honolulu to get in touch with my daughter.”
“Roger that…ah Roger” it was one of those days…
We completed the rest of the patrol…uneventful…and the end of our Palmyra excursion.
Or so I thought…
Fast forward a few weeks…a friend asks me to check out some boats in the marina for sale. We were riding our bikes, and there in front of me—in the same loincloth, although with flip flops and a tank top—is Roger. I damned near fell off my bike. After screeching to a stop, I look at Roger and say—
“Hey…Coast Guard!!.”
Amazingly, Roger breaks into a huge grin and proceeds to tell me that he is selling his boat and flying to France to see his daughter. I don’t have the patience, time, or courage to point out the gentleman he left on the island may be wanting for a relief. So be it. Roger and I exchanged pleasantries, discuss the best party we had ever been too and part ways…never to be heard from again…
Well, no. While that may be technically true…when I left CGC GRAND ISLE in 2000 (my own command of a patrol boat), my XO gave me a copy of “ACROSS THE WATER” (great book). Well, in it is a much better account of Roger…and its all true…no lie.
I love this story! I remember you telling it not long after you got back. It does suffer, however, by not having your imitation of Roger playing his steel drum
ReplyDelete